


Modus Ponens

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [10]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Casual Sex, Drinking, Hux is Not Nice, M/M, Murder, Phasma Is Not Nice, Poisoning, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Armitage Hux has done everything necessary to ensure that he is the last Hux. He's also done everything necessary to ensure that he isn't suspected.It's a perfect crime until a stranger and a bottle of whiskey threaten to make everything fall apart.Please read each chapter warning related to Hux's state of mind and the way he talks about Brendol's death/interment. There is no gore.





	Modus Ponens

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Siken bot post:  
>  _A dark-haired man in a rented bungalow is licking whiskey from the back of your wrist._
> 
> Decided something a little on the dark and sinister side was appropriate for the spooky season. Please excuse the fact that I have thrown any respect for rules regarding hearsay testimony and character witnesses out the fucking window for dramatic effect. Also please pretend that condoms purchased by one person will magically fit anyone else regardless of any imagined size difference. I regret nothing. Enjoy the smut and intrigue.
> 
> Originally posted to twitter. Please see endnotes for slightly spoiler-ish possible squick warnings re: Brendol being dead and how Hux handles the funeral. Nothing gory, cross my heart!

Brendol Hux has been dead for a month.

His son opted for a direct cremation when all was said and done. It would be relatively quick and painless with no service to plan or suffer through. He did request to press  _the_ button. The crematory director wholeheartedly agreed. They offered to have a short service in front of the retort. It was very common, especially with small or quite private families as it seemed the Huxes were. The director could say a few short words if they weren't of any particular religious inclination. They could call their own minister if they pleased as well, or allow the director to contact one for them.

Armitage declined.

The director was exceedingly understanding and polite. Everyone needed something different. A simple button-press send-off was  _also_  very common. They impressed upon him that Armitage was free to change his mind at any point up to the precise morning. After that, it would be difficult to slow the momentum of the day.

He didn't, change his mind that was.

As soon as the state released the body, the crematory picked it up from the medical examiner's office. Armitage could imagine the very clean white van with the crematory's logo printed in crisp black vinyl on the side as it drove through the city. The trip was about twenty minutes in either direction with no traffic. As soon as they arrived, Armitage's phone rang. The appointment was set for the next day.

Quick and painless. Nothing to plan.

Armitage arrives at precisely ten in the morning. He is scheduled for half-past but knows there will be paperwork to sign. At ten-thirty, the director leads him to the back of the building, through the very lovely seating areas and past viewing rooms for wakes. The space that they wind up in is quite warm. Armitage regrets his choice of coat for a moment, but rests assured that he won't be there long. It's also louder than he anticipated. Funerals were always such a quiet, hushed affair. The whole space is stark and spotlessly clean.

He watches the cardboard carrier slide into the retort. He presses the button.

It's almost anticlimactic. He thought that he might feel something  _more_. The finality of it is surprisingly neutral.

It will take approximately three hours, at a generous estimation, for the cremation. They tell him it will take perhaps another two to finish off cremulation and process the final paperwork for release.

The director seems very sensitive to Armitage's potential distress, very aware that the circumstances of Brendol's death were not natural or expected. They make it clear that his desire to expedite the process is not unusual or shameful. If he had no need of some special vessel, Amitage could retrieve his father's cremains first thing the next morning.

The plain tin labeled with Brendol's information sits silently in the passenger's seat of Armitage's car all the way down the coast. It sits just as silently in the closet at the bungalow that month; hidden but not forgotten on top of the folder with the copy of the medical examiner's report.

Armitage had been curious as to what the poison had done in the end. Whatever it had been that Phasma had given him, with  _strict_ instructions, had been effective. It was also elusive, creating puzzle upon puzzle or the team of professionals tasked with discovering what was wrong and how to treat Brendol once he finally fell ill enough to agree to hospitalization. At that point, all Armitage had to do was wait for the poison to run its course and follow the cues presented to him.

He was a perfect picture of stoic grief -- boarding school and military discipline shining through the dark cloud that followed him in the short weeks that Brendol lingered in the hospital and the time leading to the moment that Armitage placed that plain tin on the seat of his car.

The detectives asked him all of the standard questions. After the initial few days of investigation, no one cast any serious suspicion in his direction. He was cooperative and earnest, the careful portrait of a distant but obedient son.

Maratelle wasn't so lucky.

The frame-up was meticulous and she played her well long before the thought had even crossed Armitage's mind.

A secret credit card in her name. Purchases that seemed innocent enough on their own -- herbal and holistic materials, chemicals to enrich the garden she payed someone else to tend -- but together made something more sinister. Deliveries made to a post office box rather than the Hux home. Plane tickets booked. Expensive baubles accumulated.

Residues of finished poison turned up in just the right places, in just the right amounts, in the house in Brendol's name.

Armitage didn't have to have Phasma help him to fabricate Maratelle's contempt for her husband. The marriage had always been a farce. It was a union of status and convenience and economy. The pair were barely civil, performing the functions of their bond without any feeling.

All of it just confirmed what the detectives theorized: Maratelle Hux had murdered her husband. She had done it slowly and painfully. Meticulously.

The trial would begin soon. From what the prosecutor had let him know, jury selection was winding down. They expected him to testify and he fully intended to. He wondered what his testimony should look like from time to time. Should he cry or get emotional? Should he remain composed? Be the stalwart son that Brendol had raised? At the very least, he suspected, if he allowed himself to struggle just a little in the glossy wooden box on the uncomfortable chair with the dusty microphone in his face, he might turn the jury's sympathies. Perhaps, when the prosecutor questioned him about his youth and the relationship he understood clearly between his father and stepmother, that was when he should do it. It felt right. Phasma would be there to put her arm around his shoulders when he went back to his seat in the gallery, comforting and reassuring him.

Armitage wonders, pondering for the nth time over the whole thing as he pours himself another helping from the half-empty bottle of whiskey he's pretending he doesn't intend to polish off, if he could walk down to the water and empty the tin from the closet? After he testified, of course. Or would it be better to wait? Let Maratelle be sentenced first. Let the active interests of her defense team fade once their cash-cow was off to prison and the hassle of the appeal process loomed heavy in the future.

He finishes his drink over the evening news and passes out in blissful drunkeness to the sounds of the latest public impressions of the trial. The whole thing has caught national headlines for its strangeness and tragedy. He wakes with a hangover that he doesn't regret.

The whiskey is -- was -- expensive, nicked from Brendol's private stash after the police released the house. They'd combed over every inch of the place, searching for evidence of the crime that even in those first days was increasingly  _obvious_ that Maratelle had committed. Armitage had to laugh at the way things had been disturbed in such a purposeful way in each room of the house. There were smears of fingerprint powder on so many of the surfaces in Brendol's office and bedroom, in Maratelle's sitting room... in the pantry and the kitchen and the garden shed where Phasma had quietly hidden the raw materials of their crime. There were perfect, square voids in the powder where prints had been lifted. The garbage cans were all missing. So were the computers and tablets and phones. The only bottles from the bar that hadn't been collected were those with unbroken, original seals.

In the middle of it all, Armitage did and does still have work to do. There are still deadlines to meet, contracts to fill.

The weather forecast is warm and windy, a perfect opportunity to work outside. He's been cooped up in the bungalow drinking and basking in the perfection of the events unfolding around him for far too long. The time outside will do him good.

The air is warm and wet and salty, thick as if it would move in a big blob if you ran your hand through it the right way. It soaks the tension from his eyes and forehead. He tosses a bath towel down on the sand and drops his body on top to watch the sun finish its slow crawl into the sky.

For the first time since Brendol's death -- for the first time in his  _life_ , if he's honest, which he is not -- Armitage feels that he can breathe freely.

There are a handful of other people on the beach. He recognizes them from the bungalows around his. The units are spread out far enough that he feels sufficiently alone in the evenings. He doesn't hear their comings and goings during the day. Someone is out on the water sitting astride a surfboard and staring out toward the horizon. Armitage doesn't recognize the shape of them. He watches the stranger until it feels wrong to continue, a passing neighbor on their morning run startling him back into himself. He slides his tablet out of his backpack and dives into the work that's waiting for him.

Hours pass and his hand cramps around the stylus. His stomach grumbles and his back twinges.

Satisfied with what he's completed, Armitage thinks that lunch at the quaint, touristy little shack down the beach is in order. He deserves at least a small reward.

His hair is stiff and heavy with salt, ruffling against his forehead in the lazy movement of air from the overhead fans. The fish tacos are sharp with acid and buttery soft. The beer has a citrusy tang. The grizzled old man who runs the shack leaves him alone after the food is in front of him and only returns when called for.

Armitage leafs though the pages of his latest designs on the tablet, satisfied with the work even more so now that his belly is contentedly full.

"Hey!" a deep voice calls from the door, friendly. The old man gets up with creaky knees and motions for the newcomer to have a seat at the counter. He brings out an old, laminated paper menu that crinkles in his hands. The new customer smells strongly of the water, like he's brought the beach in through the door with him. When he reaches up behind himself to tie his thick sheet of dark hair in a knot, little droplets fly off the ends and land on Armitage's arm and cheek.

He does his best to ignore it, wiping the water away and turning back to his own plate. He works through the fish and the warm chips steadily, sucking the salt off his fingers with relish. He feels suddenly, as he pushes his plate away, that he is being watched. Armitage turns toward the person sitting just a seat away at the counter.

"Hey," the man who smells of the ocean says with a slow smile. His teeth are crooked. The bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheeks are freckled and sunburned. When his hair is dry there is white salt residue beginning to show. Against the wall near the door, Armitage notices, there is a large surfboard propped up.

"Can I help you?"

The stranger from the beach thanks the old man when his food is delivered. "Just wanted to say hello, I suppose. I saw you on the beach this morning. You looked very focused on whatever it was you were doing." He takes a sip of his beer and considers his plate for a moment, turning it around. "Are you a writer?

Armitage scoffs and finishes his own drink. "No, I'm not a writer. I'm a private defense contractor."

It was a point of pride -- and something his father always hated. That he hadn't stayed in until the bitter end, that he'd carved his own path. The contract he accepted on the day Brendol died is on track to be the mos profitable one on of his career so far, monetarily and otherwise. He has no qualms about sensitivities or modesty.

"So you like, build weapons or something?"

Armitage shakes his head and motions to the old man for another beer. "I design war games. Training simulations. Tests of personal mettle." He takes a long sip from the cold bottle, tiny ice chips clinging to the sides and melting against his hot palm.

The stranger considers him as carefully as he'd considered his plate, taking a big bite of a taco and catching the juice with the back of his hand as it slips down his chin. "I was Special Ops," he takes another bite. "Air Force." He wipes his hands on a paper napkin from the dispenser on the counter. "Ben, by the way."

Armitage looks at the hand that Ben offers -- enormous, calloused, blunt fingertips with neatly trimmed nails that seem too clean. "Hux," he responds, taking the hand to shake. He weighs the name on his tongue and feels himself flush. He  _is_ Hux, the last, the only. He likes it. Ben repeats it and his stomach flips over, the soles of his feet going hot like they do when...

Ben is talking.

Hux isn't listening.

"Is there something wrong?" Ben asks, consternation wrinkling his brow. His face is more expressive than it has any right to be.

"No," Hux shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I was distracted."

Ben turns back to his plate and eats quietly for a moment. "I'll leave you alone then."

Hux finishes his beer quicker than he wants to and pulls a few crumpled bills out of his pocket to settle up. "Ben," he asks, standing up out of his seat. "Would it be too forward of me to ask if you'd like to come by my place tonight?"

Ben frowns at the taco that was very much falling apart in his hand. Hux had watched him squeeze far more lime into it than was advisable. "No," he says softly. "That wouldn't be too forward."

Hux's chest grows warm. He pushes his hand through his stiffened hair, searching for something to write with. Someone else pays their bill with a card and leaves the pen on the counter after they sign the receipt. Hux leans over and grabs it, scrawls the foolish little address of his bungalow onto a napkin. "I'll be in for the night around seven."

Ben looks at the napkin and then up at Hux. His cheeks flush just a little brighter than his sunburn. He sucks his bottom lip in like he's soothing the salty burn of the shack's house-made chips. "Sounds good."

Hux takes his time walking home, mind wandering on a twisting path between work and Ben.

The scenario he's designing could be modified for a nighttime deployment, maybe even near water. Ben looked like some kind of powerful sea creature, thighs tight and round under his wetsuit.

He wonders if snow and ice might add a level of difficulty to the mission, or simply make it impossible to achieve objectives in the prescribed time. Ben's waist is impossibly trim for such a broad person, accentuated with the sleeves of the suit tied around it.

Over some of the terrain, it could be beneficial for unit members to tether themselves together in some way. Perhaps, he should specify that they be provided with breakaway lines and see if they figure out their purpose. That knot of dark hair would make a nice tether. He can see in his mind's eye how Ben's back would arch, belly sweeping low toward the mattress and hips high while Hux pulls.

Adding some hypothetical nuclear component -- an oscillator gone critical -- could add some urgency to the scenario, enforce the time limit. Hux leans into the scalding water of the shower, stroking himself with urgency, unsure of what exactly has driven him toward the edge.

Hux dries himself off and throws on a clean pair of sweats and a shirt. There's no reason to put real effort in. He contemplates making the bed and decides it's equally as pointless. He settles on picking up the refuse of his newly lazy lifestyle from the little living room. He cleans the dishes that have piled up in the kitchen. When his stomach growls a few hours later, he fixes himself a sandwich and eats standing up, surveying the small landscape of space in front of him. If Ben follows through, he'll be there shortly. Hux claps the crumbs off of his hands and sweeps his collection of empty top-shelf bottles from Brendol's house into the trash, shutting them up in the cabinet beneath the sink. His head buzzes with anticipation when  _finally_ , there's a knock at his door.

"Number sixty-nine, huh?" Ben says with a low laugh when Hux lets him in. He hadn't picked the number, it had been what the rental agency offered. He has a hard time not rolling his eyes every time he walks up to the front of the bungalow and sees the shiny brass plaque. "So, I'm here." Ben murmurs, pressing in just a little too close as he slips inside. "What did you have in mind?"

Hux holds his breath, waiting for Ben to move and closing the door behind him. He shrugs, trying to appear casual. Ben looks good. More than good. His hair is down, clean and dry and glossy and so thick -- Hux just wants to get lost in it. He's put some effort in, more than Hux has. Impeccably fitted jeans and a soft jersey shirt cling to him in all the right ways. The sun-bleached, salt-stained tee back at the shack hadn't done him justice.

Ben is a treat. A meal. Hux wants to get his mouth on every inch immediately. "I thought we could have a drink, see where things go."

Ben's lips curl into a smile. "So I thought right, then. You're not actually interested in  _me_. You just want an anonymous fuck."

"That's only partially true," Hux insists when Ben carefully puts his backpack over the rail of a kitchen chair. "I don't fuck people I don't think are interesting." He gestures for Ben to sit.

"You didn't listen to a word I said." The space he takes up in the seat and at the table is a tangible thing. Hux supposes that the table is also just very small.

"I listened to enough. You're  _aff-sock_ , that means something." Ben raises a brow at the way he pronounces the acronym.

"I guess." He shrugs. "It was just small talk."

Hux spends the next hour drawing information out of him, getting high on it. Ben was a pilot, of course. A handful of tours under his belt before he left. What he did after didn't matter as much to Hux. He can picture Ben behind the controls -- hair neatly tucked away, flight suit crisp, voice like honey over the comms. Ben flew a Stinger with a precision strike package. He drinks his whiskey straight. His eyes are warm and dark and inviting, his mouth red and lush.

They finish Brendol's bottle. There hadn't been much left, anyway. They open another, not as good but passable.

"Maybe I've done some of your stuff? The games -- training?" Hux shakes his head. He attended most of the major projects in person, and remembers every one. He's never designed anything for Ben's command. Besides, Ben was memorable. He would have fucked him sooner than this. Ben laughs. "You're direct, I'll give you that."

Hux smiles, devilish in his cups. "You're the one who showed up."

Ben narrows his eyes and drops his voice low. "Yes, I did." He pulls the bottle closer to himself, pours another portion. "So why are you here, Hux?"

Hux likes the way it sounds on Ben's lips. He's sure he'll like it even more when Ben is moaning it. "It's beach. The weather is nice. I'm on vacation."

Ben laughed, "You're a bad liar." He takes another sip. Even with the liquor his eyes are still sharp and focused. It's a little unnerving.

"Well why are  _you_ here? Prancing around with your surfboard getting everyone wet."

Ben rolls his eyes. "I'm not that long out. Can't really deal with people. Well, can't really deal with my parents. It'll be better when my sister comes home from school." He casts such a sincere look at Hux that he blushes right up to his ears. "Just taking some time to get my shit together."

Hux takes the bottle back and finishes the drink he has. He pours another and knocks that back too.

"You work for... for the government, basically. And you seem like a workaholic." Ben laughs a little as Hux winces and finishes the last bit in his glass. "You were making up some kind of mission training on the beach all morning and when I first saw you, it looked like you were working on it at the restaurant, too."

"Your point being?"

"There's not a chance you're on vacation. What are you hiding?"

Hux hesitates, picking at the label on the bottle. "My father's dead."

"Shit," Ben murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He was a bastard." Hux tops off their glasses. "The circumstances are a bit complicated. I thought I might get away for a bit. My work is just about the only thing that makes sense." He clears his throat. He sounds pathetic. "Well, that's just killed the mood, hasn't it?" Hux turns toward the sound of a cereal box falling off the counter. "Goddamned cat! I don't know how it keeps getting in here." An orange ball of unruly fluff with legs jumps down and disappears into the laundry closet. "It's not mine."

"You're just gonna leave 'er?"

"It'll find its way out... and then back in again. There's tags." Hux turns back to the table and waves his hand dismissively. He knocks the open bottle over, hands frantically shooting out to catch it before it hits the floor. The spicy tang of the whiskey fills the air as it splatters across the table but he saves the bottle. "Fuck," he swears quietly and puts the bottle down a little harder than necessary. Ben's shirt is covered in wet droplets. "Fuck."

Ben brushes at the front of himself and catches Hux's hand when he begins to stand. "Hey, its fine." His shirt, Hux argues, not pulling away. "It's fine." Ben leans in, catching Hux's eye, and gently sucks the whiskey from the back of his hand. He turns it over and leans in closer, runs his tongue along the hard line of the tendon there in Hux's wrist. "It's fine," he says again, low a deep just like the whiskey.

Hux begins to stand again, his wrist still caught up in Ben's grasp. Ben moves, quick and fluid like he's sliding into his cockpit, and stops him -- pressing Hux back down into his seat and settling himself into Hux's lap. The chair creaks beneath them. He grins.

"Chair breaks, you're paying for it."

"Noted."

"We're here then?"

"I think so. We've had enough drinking and talking."

Ben places Hux's hand on his stomach and leans in, big hands cupping Hux's skull like he's going to crack it. Ben kisses him soundly and he thinks that his bones have begun to melt. Every one of the fantasies he'd indulged over the course of the afternoon rush though his head and he can't decide which one he wants to propose first.

He spreads his fingers over Ben's stomach, the soft little rolls of it as he hunches forward yielding beneath Hux's fingertips until he hits the hard muscle underneath. Ben's lips map out his own, then his chin and his jaw and his left ear and they fall to his throat with a wet glide. He makes soft, pleased sounds when Hux moves his hands, pressing his fingers into Ben's sides and hips and thighs.

"Mm, open it," he sighs when Hux finds the fly of his jeans. His teeth bite into Hux's shoulder gently, hands finding Ben's cock between them. Ben's skin is warm and soft, cock not hard just yet, hair coarse but not unpleasantly.

"You do this often?" Hux asks, biting back a gasp when Ben gives his hair a solid tug.

"Do you?"

"Maybe. Occasionally."

Ben laughs and straightens up, lashes fluttering while Hux works his cock out. "I thought I'd be a little adventurous. Throw caution to the wind. I _am_ on vacation."

"So, no then?"

"Maybe. Occasionally." Ben takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He's holding back. He kisses Hux again, far too much tongue but enthusiastic enough to make up for it. "How about we clean this mess up and find the bedroom?"

Blood rushes back into Hux's legs and the chair creaks again with Ben's weight off of them. He seems to need to catch his breath, pushing his hair back with both hands and standing there for a second before he half-heartedly tucks himself away and places the bottle into the sink. The cap has gone somewhere. Hux ignores the feverish itch under his skin and snags the towel looped through the fridge handle. He cleans up the spilled liquor, the smell of it smacking him in the face when he disturbs the puddle. His knees are marginally less jellied when he's done.

Ben is grinning at him. "Wouldn't want not-your-cat to get hurt."

There's a rustle from the laundry room in response and Hux rolls his eyes. The back door is just a few steps away and he opens it, speaking roughly in the direction of the rustling. "You! Orange menace! Out!" There's a disdainful sounding chirp and a colorful streak across the floor. Hux shuts the door firmly behind it, turning the lock with purpose. He cocks a brow at Ben, "Bedroom's that way." He jerks his chin. Ben takes something out of his backpack, a little flash of gold, and saunters in the direction Hux indicates.

Hux follows, watching the roll of Ben's shoulders and hips across the narrow little living room and the tiny hall into the bedroom. He doesn't waste any time, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. "Sit," he says. Hux eyes him for a moment and drops down onto the bed. Somewhere along the way Hux had given up control of the evening to Ben, homefield advantage meant very little.

Ben hesitates, cheeks flushing pink and then draining again. He eases himself down onto his knees. He reaches forward, big hands moving over Hux's knees and up his thighs. The heat of his palms is overwhelming. He shuffles forward, making Hux spread his legs. Ben's hands glide up around his waist, thumbs pressing in deliciously. He looks up, lip pinched between his teeth and eyes questioning. Hux nods, blood roaring in his ears, and lifts his hips to allow Ben to pull the band of his sweats down. Ben laughs at the lack of underclothes, clearly amused. Maddeningly, it goes straight to Hux's dick, twitching. He's bewildered by what Ben does next: arms resting lightly beside his legs, fingers brushing idly at his hips, at the modest roundness of his backside sitting down. Ben lays his head on Hux's bare thigh.

"Touch it for me."

It's not a request. There's command here, even if Ben's ears are pink and he's looking up at Hux like a painted cherub.

Hux touches himself. He watches Ben while Ben watches him, self-consciousness burning a hole through his gut but failing to keep him from getting hard. Ben makes a pleased sound and shifts. Hux's leg tingles, toes going pins-and-needles. Ben seems determined to make him aware of his presence, his weight.

"You got rubbers?"

Hux is startled by the sudden question, even in context, practically in a trance of his own making. He's confused for a moment, not sure what Ben is getting at, his mind turning over too slowly and then -- no, he doesn't, he confesses.

"It's fine," Ben slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a couple of stuck together gold foil packets. "I stopped at the pharmacy. I'm allergic to latex, anyway, usually bring my own."

Hux takes the offered packets and pulls them apart. He stares down at the gold square in his hands dumbly for a moment. Ben is too much, to sure of himself. Hux wanted to take him apart and somewhere along the way the tables were turned. He cannot decide if he likes it or not.

"Put it on." Ben offers gently.

Hux's hands are just barely trembling as he rips it open and slides the condom out. He feels foolish, starting to put it on backward and realizing what he's done when it won't roll.

Ben does this more often than he's willing to admit, Hux is sure of that. He's barely got the condom all the way down when Ben is taking his hands and kissing them, biting at the meaty part of his palm where his thumb connects. Ben's breath his hot against Hux's erection, swaying subtly there between them to the beat of his heart.

He shouts out loud when Ben closes the distance between them and closes his lips around the head of his cock in an easy motion. There's no awkwardness or fumbling. Ben works his way steadily down, humming in delight when Hux remembers he has hands and how to command them.

Ben's mouth is hot and confident and wet. His nose touches Hux, sinking into the coppery curl of hair at his root. Hux regrets not making more of an effort for just a moment. Ben coughs around him, choking a little. A thick strand of saliva escapes the side of his mouth, catches in Hux's hair. He has to clench every muscle he still has voluntary control over to keep from coming immediately. Ben backs off a little, face truly red now, and begins again. He's slow and purposeful like he wants this to last, like sucking cock is his reason for living. Hux grips Ben's hair tight, luxuriating in the silky slip of it through his fingers. Ben shudders, pausing for a moment and breathing hard though his nose. He pulls off unexpectedly and looks up at Hux.

Hux has to look away.

"Do you --" Ben is breathless, his voice low and rough, croaking like an overgrown frog prince. "Do you have lube?"

Hux takes a long breath, filling his belly with it. He needs Ben on his cock again, immediately. "Yeah, there." He finally looks back at Ben and gestures to the nightstand, bottle already sitting out at ready.

"Did you leave this here for us?" Ben's laugh makes Hux's cock twitch, bouncing toward his belly and swinging back again.

"I'm single and grieving, Ben, what do you think I do all night?"

Ben's face, slightly cooled, flushes prettily again. He nods and gets to his feet to retrieve the bottle. Standing over Hux, he regains some of his sultry swagger. "How do you like it? On your back or belly?"

"How do  _I_  like it?" Ben nods, dropping the lubricant next to him. He slides one hand down into his waistband, fingertips disappearing slowly. He doesn't, usually. He considers telling Ben just that, telling Ben he prefers  _him_ on  _his_ belly -- on his knees --stripped down. He opens his mouth to speak and only manages to gasp softly. Ben's cock is out and he's stroking it like there's nothing strange about any of this at all. "I want to look at you," he finally whispers.

Ben kicks his shoes off, stepping on the heels carelessly. Hux watches dumbly while he strips out of his jeans and underwear, watches Ben's ridiculous hard cock swing with the movement. His mouth is too wet and too dry all at once and he can feel himself blush from the top of his head right down to his stupid, soft stomach when Ben is fully nude. He's pale like marble, dotted with little beauty marks like he was hewn from some tainted quarry. His side is twisted with an ugly scar, discolored and thick. Hux immediately wants to know what it is but Ben is leaning in to kiss him, a knee on the bed making the mattress sag. Hux has to scoot back to give him room, pulling away to take his own shirt off before he lets Ben back in again, feeling too silly sitting there in just that. Ben's hands cradle his hips too much like a lover, gripping his backside and making Hux's lift his legs around his waist. He straightens up again and grabs the lube, spreading it over his fingers and rubbing them together like he's warming it. He's gentle when he spreads it through Hux's cleft, reaching down between them. He looks at Hux for assurance before breaching him, fist with one finger and then two. He's drawing this out completely unnecessarily.

"Just fuck me," Hux finally says through gritted teeth. He's almost annoyed. He doesn't do this -- he does this, yeah, sure, but not  _this_. Whatever this is too-quickly becoming. Ben says something soft right next to his ear and he doesn't hear it, too in his own head. Hux chokes and gasps, body jerking with surprise when Ben finally does what he's told.

**Author's Note:**

> Hux waxes poetic (and sinister and cold) about how he handles the funeral arrangements for Brendol. He chooses direct cremation, which sometimes involves the family coming to the crematory and pressing The Button on the retort. He's clinical about the time it takes to cremate and picking up the ashes. Because of Hux's involvement in Brendol's death, this may seem particularly squick for some.


End file.
